


Three Thousand

by teenagewristband



Category: Common Law
Genre: AU, Angst, Common Law Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagewristband/pseuds/teenagewristband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Common Law Kink Meme -Maybe Wes is a high-priced escort who finds himself involved in a homicide... and the cop who's interrogating him just happens to have the most beautiful eyes ever? (Bonus for Dr. Ryan as a madam because YES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Thousand

**Author's Note:**

> I am working my way through some kink meme prompts, there are probably three more fics coming.

“Wesley, I thought you had an engagement in the hills. What are you doing here?” Wes Mitchell turns to face his business partner.

“Is that blood?”

“I, maybe...Yes. I think I need an attorney.”

She laughs. “Maybe you should have stayed in law school then.”

“Amanda.” 

It's been years, but anything to do with law school still stings. He doesn't have many caveats about his clients, but the one he's always had from the beginning is no attorneys. Amanda knows better, but often she simply doesn't care. He allows it, but one day he won't. It's been ten years. It's possible that day has come.

“You're shaking. What's happened?”

“There was a dead guy at the house. I didn't know him, but -”

Amanda reaches for the phone even as she asks calmly, “Dead, what do you mean dead?”

“I mean I got to the house and there was blood and he was...on the floor and..,” he can feel his vision start to tunnel.

“Sit down before you fall down honey. Are you sure he was dead?” Before he can tell her of course he's sure. That's why there's blood on the cuffs of his favorite suit, but she holds up her finger for him to wait.

“Hi darling, it's Amanda. I'm going to need your help with something. Yes, we have a situation.” 

Wes lets his mind drift as Amanda talks to their fixer. He's never met the woman. He's always conducted himself above board, no drugs, no extortion, no falling in love with clients and turning up on their doorsteps to tell the wife/husband etc... He is a model employee with blood on one of his favorite suits because he checked for the victim's pulse before leaving the scene of the crime. The very bloody, violent crime. 

“I'm going to step out,” he mouths. She gives him the imperious finger again. Holding her mouth away from the phone, “Go home. Burn that suit. Take a shower. Relax. I'll call you in an hour.”

 

He doesn't burn the suit. The part of him that was going to be an attorney, that is mostly law abiding except this one aspect of his life won't allow that. Instead, he gets a large garbage bag from his favorite housekeeper and shoves it under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. It's a short term solution, but for the moment it's the only one his mind can wrap around.

 

One of the things he loves about living in a hotel, especially this one, is the water pressure. In the last ten years he's lived in a couple of luxury hotels, but this one is the best. Large enough that he can remain mostly anonymous to the other long term guests, yet be well taken care of by the staff. The concierge is the only one who knows what he does. Most of the other staff believe he's a trustfund brat.

The hot water sluicing over his skin feels amazing. It's the best touch he ever feels. Occasionally, with a particularly tedious client, he allows his mind to drift into fantasies about the pleasure of the hot shower he'll take after the encounter is over. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he scrubs his skin, he can't get rid of the image of the dead man in his mind. His skin is raw, stings a little, but he stays in until the water chills his skin.

 

On the dresser, the cell blinks indicating at least one missed call. Amanda most likely as promised. The discovery of hours before makes him decidedly disinclined to pick up the call. He's not in the mood. Snagging a beer from the mini bar, he thinks about getting drunk. It's not something he's done since his undergrad days, when people use to tell him he needed to loosen up, but he thinks perhaps the events of earlier are a pretty good reason. Of course once he starts...That's the crux of it, once he starts. He's never needed anything extra to do his job, neither to get up or come down. He's been fortunate to avoid many of the pitfalls he's seen colleagues fall into, all kinds of self-destructive behavior, but he isn't twenty-two. 

It's not like his current profession has a 401k. He's been good with his money. There are diversified investments, mostly real estate. He owns a nice house in Santa Barbara, with tenants, but the retirement age for men like him is closer to five years ago than sixty-five. It's those kinds of thoughts that let him know it's probably best for him to avoid alcohol tonight. Smiling to himself, he pops the cap anyway.

The knock on the door when he is just about half way through his beer is not entirely unexpected. Amanda is nothing if not tenacious. Usually, she just lets herself in. When she doesn't, it means she wants something. Soften him up with a little courtesy then go for the jugular. 

“Use your key,” he calls out. The knock comes again, insistent.

“Alright, alright. It's not like I haven't already had a day Amanda. I mean why can't you -” He swings the door open to find that it's not Amanda at all standing on the other side. It's a man about his age in dark wash jeans and a deep navy t-shirt. Although the attire is a little juvenile for a man his age, the navy of the t-shirt makes the man's surprisingly blue eyes pop. 

“I think you have the wrong room.” 

A knowing smile crosses the man's face, just before he badges Wes. “Detective Travis Marks, LAPD. Are you Wesley Mitchell?” 

It would be naive to think Amanda's fixer could keep him entirely out of this, but he thought there would be more time. Maybe he should have answered his phone.

“Yes, I'm Wes Mitchell. What can I do for you?”

“ **You're** Wesley Mitchell?” The tone of the question is off-putting. Even though the hotel robe is tightly belted, he clutches the two sides together a little more, squares his shoulders. 

“Amanda Ryan's associate?” The Detective makes air quotes when he says associate. Anger flashes through Wes.

“What do you need Detective?” 

“Well Mr. Mitchell, everything notwithstanding I'm guessing this is not what you were wearing earlier this evening. I'll need those clothes. Shoes and whatever other accessories you were wearing.”

The tone of the Detective's voice brooks no argument. The fixer's hand is obviously all over this, and yet... It's on the tip of his tongue to argue with the man. To tell the man that he can't tell Wes what to do, when of course he can in this situation. It occurs to Wes that he might do it just see how the blue of the other man's eyes would darken. If they would still pop as well against the blue of his shirt.  
His attention must have drifted because he just catches the tail end of, “...officer at the end of the hall.” Poking his head, Wes sees a man in regular clothes at the end of the hallway. But his jacket bulges at his waist where his weapon is holstered.

“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Mitchell in the downstairs bar.” Detective Marks turns and strides away. Wes can't help but watch the fit of his jeans as he does. 

Maybe because his work takes him to a lot of bars, clubs and parties, spending time in the hotel bar or any bar has never really appealed to him off the clock. The crowd is pure weeknight, off season which make it easy to spot the Detective. The booth is right at the front of the room. Right, Wes thinks. No way for anyone to misconstrue this for anything unsavory. He slips into the booth on the opposite side of the Detective. The man flashes a kind of lazy smile at Wes. His heart stutters.

“Detective Marks.”

“Wesley Mitchell, you have the right to remain silent.”

Wes silently fumes as he's being Mirandaed. It is a courtesy he knows that, understands that in the more rational part of his being. It takes half a minute. The nod Wes gives at the end is barely there.

“Unclench Mr. Mitchell.” He wants to. He really does, but it's been a day. 

“Was that really necessary Detective.” 

“Favors were called in.” The disdain is unmistakable. “That's why I'm here chatting with you in a bar instead of a couple of my suited up, by the book colleagues staring at you from the opposite side of a table in an interview room at the station.”

“You're not by the book?”

“I am by the book. I just make it look good. The way I read your rights to you, that's probably the best you're ever gonna get.” 

The effortlessly flirtatious grin he flashes at Wes somehow seems to make his eyes sparkle that much bluer. The effect is not quite like anything Wes has been on the receiving end of before. Irritation at being treated like a criminal disappears like so much smoke.

“Your eyes are stunning.” 

It sounds like a line when he says it. Wes knows it. Can hear it in his own voice. Can hear how saying that or something similar to many other men over the many years has given the words a sort of involuntary insincerity. He regrets each of the other times he's ever said it because this time he means it. He means it and he wants the man on the receiving end to believe it and not see it as part of an age old dance. 

Detective Marks simply quirks his eyebrow and says, “Obviously that's not the first time I've heard that. Not even the first time from a witness or a perp. I mean this is a murder investigation. Where's the 'A' game?”

It stings, but there's a comfort in that. He can still be stung.

“I mean, yeah I can see you're hot. And you know for clientele of a certain age you'd still be the sweet, young thing.”

The heat of an unexpected blush rises on his cheeks. Over the years, that reaction has been reduced to something he calls up on cue. It's rare that anyone or anything can still make that happen spontaneously. Even though there was a dig in what the Detective said. He suspects the man might be trying to see if he can be sparked to quick anger. If he has it in him to kill with that kind of passion that would leave someone bloody and mutilated on a bedroom floor. 

He doesn't take the bait.

“Why would you leave the scene of the crime if you weren't complicit.”

“You think I would murder someone and keep the clothes I was wearing?”

“In my career I've arrested quite a few arrogant SOBs. You wouldn't be the first, or likely the last.” 

“It, I'm not very good with blood. I'm not good with uh, mess. That kind of mess. It shorted my system I guess. ” 

“I guess you're more use to other kinds of bodily fluids. Other kinds of mess.” But there's a smirk that makes blue eyes twinkle at him.

“I stayed long enough to see if I could do anything. But he was already gone. I couldn't stay.”

“And the victim wasn't a client?”

“No I'd never seen him before.”

“What did you do today Mr. Mitchell?”

“Personal trainer. Haircut at Chaz Dean around noon. Sunset Plaza after to pick up a suit from Hugo Boss.” 

“How much did the suit set you back?”

“I'm not sure that's any of your business.”  
“It's all my business. Did you pay cash or use a credit card?”

“Cash.”

“So you have the receipt with the time and date?”

“It was e-mailed to Amanda, my business manager.”

“Business manager? Right.” The knowing smile is infuriating.

“You live here in the hotel. Makes you transient. Easy to pick up and go.”

“Harder for clients who are unable to understand maintaining proper boundaries to show up on the doorstep unexpectedly.”

“All the same Mr. Mitchell, do I need to confiscate your passport? Your business manager doesn't have that too does she?”

“She doesn't and that won't be necessary Detective.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

Marks stands, extending his hand as he does. Wes feels both unsettled and thoroughly dismissed. 

“Detective.” 

 

It doesn't take long for the police to apprehend the actual murderer. It was a crime of passion. A very messy crime of passion with enough DNA to make it easy to nail the boyfriend of the of the man scheduled for a 'meeting' at the house right before Wes'.

Detective Marks shows up unannounced at Wes' hotel room just like the first time. 

“I thought you might want this back.”

Before Wes can say anything the Detective hands over a dry cleaning bag. Immediately Wes shoves up the plastic to inspect the suit he was wearing when he discovered the body. It's perfectly pressed. The blood that dotted his cuffs and marred other parts of the suit is gone.

“We have a really good concoction for getting blood out of fabric.” The smirk that seems ever present is back. 

“Thank you.” Blue eyes sparkle at him.

A flutter of nerves hits Wes low in his belly. It's been a long time since he's felt that.

“Would you let me buy you a drink downstairs?” 

“Sure, we can celebrate that the case is closed.”  
“I didn't think I'd ever see this suit again.”

“Or that.”

 

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼ 

Just like last time, it's a weeknight. A Tuesday and they have their pick of the room. With a practiced nonchalance, Wes leads them to a booth at the back out of the way of the main part of the bar. The Detective doesn't remark on that as he slides in opposite Wes. The service is fast, smooth. He's only just taken a sip of his second beer, when he blurts, 

“I wish I had someone who cared enough about me back in the day to put up a fight. To kill for me.”

 

Travis, the Detective had said call me Travis when they sat down, “If we're drinking together I'm not going to let you call me Detective,” Travis is lifting his own beer to his mouth. It stops mid-arc.

“You want someone to kill for you.”

“I would like someone to have enough passion for me, actual me, to want me to stop.”

Travis' beer settles on the table.

“How did this even start?”

My business manager, Amanda? We went to school together, undergrad. And then I was in law school and she was getting her MBA and law school went a little south on me. She, Amanda was always a great listener. She decided to use her listening skills for evil.”

That gets a smile. It makes the Detective's, Travis' eyes sparkle, makes it easier for Wes to keep talking. It's a story he hasn't really ever told. Clients have asked, but he can't recall ever actually telling the truth. Mostly, he just smiled it off and tried to remain enigmatic. Ten years of being smiling and enigmatic. It wears on a soul. 

“The emphasis of her program was entrepreneurship. She's a fantastic pimp. Knows just what to say to get them in. Knew just what to say to me.”

There's a tinge of bitterness in his voice that he doesn't try to mask with a laugh or an offhand remark. It's the truth. He'd needed Amanda. When things were falling apart, he'd needed a shoulder to cry on. She'd held his hand and talked in that soft cajoling way she had.

“Wesley, you need to let go a little. Have fun. Let yourself be wined and dined. Have good seats at the LA Phil. Let yourself be on the receiving end of a little adoration for a change. Relax. If it comes with a little mad money so be it. It's like a sabbatical. And you can stop anytime you want.”

It had taken a murder.

“Stop now.”

Wes startles, unsure if he'd repeated what Amanda said to him out loud. He's only prepared to be so honest. All these years later it's a source of embarrassment how easy it was for her to sway him. 

“I want you to stop.”

“You're a cop, of course you want me to stop. It's not the same.”

“How many people do you know that aren't escorts or escort adjacent.”

Wes sips his drink.

In the early years, Wes had managed a few real dates. In those days, he would simply tell people he was on a break from law school which was true, even though he knew he was most likely never going back. It was a truth he hadn't fully told himself then so he doesn't think he can be faulted for not sharing on first dates with virtual strangers. 

As the years piled up between him and his last day of attendance at law school, it was a lie he could no longer tell. He'd still not figured out a way to be honest about his profession with new people in his life. Gradually, he'd simply stopped letting in new people. It was easier than getting the 'look' or trying to keep track of lies.

“Exactly. I'm the best you're gonna to get. I want you to stop.”

They've known each other for two weeks. “Known” is even stretching it, but watching Travis watching him, he's tempted to say yes. 

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he says instead. 

“I know you do.” The man's smirk makes his eyes light up that much more and Wes can't resist. He shifts so that he can sit next to the Detective in the booth. 

When he leans forward, telegraphing his intentions, the Detective doesn't move. He let's their mouths come together in a kiss that's just the slightest bit hesitant on Wes' part before he lets himself go. The Detective is the first person he's wanted to kiss in a long time. Pressing forward, his fingers splay lightly against the Detective's chest as his tongue traces the seal of the other man's lips. Travis parts to him just enough for him to slip his tongue into the wet heat of the other man's mouth. _It's good, this is good_ Wes thinks before Marks gently moves Wes' hand away from his chest, separates their mouths. They sit there like that for a few seconds no longer kissing, but still close. Breathing each other in, Marks' hand still holding his slightly. His touch on Wes' skin is electric.  
  
“You're, you've been locked down for a long time I'm guessing. Come back to me in a year.” 

“Don't patronize me.”

“I spent my entire childhood in foster care. Eighteen homes, and I was always happy when a family wanted me. It meant something that they wanted me. It meant everything. I 'date' a lot. it's taken me a little while to get use to the idea as a grownup that I don't have to go home with everyone that asks. It's made for some shitty morning afters and a lots of hurt feelings and broken relationships along the way. 

As calloused fingers trace over his cheeks, his hairline, Wes presses into the touch. 

 

“Get out because you want to. Get out because it's time. Call me in a year.” 

 

**One Year Later**

Wes is trying not to be that guy. Unnecessarily fussy, high strung. But he can't help it. He wants everything to be perfect. It's a little unrealistic. He may not know Travis Marks well, but he knows enough to understand that a well set table is probably not that big a deal with him, still. As Wes adjusts one of the cloth napkins on his dining room table, he just can't help himself, he is excited. And nervous.

He knows the meal will be good. He's never been a bad cook, but in the last years he's become better. For that, he's still kept it simple. Steak, steamed haricot verts and mashed potatoes, simple enough not to go too wrong, easy enough to add a little personal flare through preparation. 

The knock on the door startles him a little, although it shouldn't. The Detective had texted to let him know he was about ten minutes out. 

It's bad form for the host to stare, but it takes Wes by surprise how much seeing Detective Marks for the first time in a year takes his breath away. There is nothing appreciably different about the Detective since the last time he saw him. He's wearing a dark blue t-shirt and dark wash jeans. The leather jacket this time is black instead of the brown he first met him in, but not much has changed physically. His hair may be a little more closely cropped. And yet. His brilliant blue eyes sparkle at Wes as his infectious smile warms him. 

“I brought this.” Travis offers over a bottle of wine as he steps across the threshold into Wes' home. Reaching for the bottle on reflex, Wes steps back enough to allow the other man entry. He glances quickly at the Bastide Miraflor label then back at his dinner guest.

“You said sirloin. At K&L they said it would work.” Wes knows the shop. In his other life, he'd dropped a fair amount of money there. 

“This is perfect.” The Detective, Travis blushes under the compliment. Wes tightens his grip on the wine so he doesn't reach for the other man.

“Welcome to my home.”

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼ 

It turned out Travis was hungry. They both were. Wes hadn't really eaten since the night before because of nerves. In an effort to get as much of his casework taken care of as possible so that he could have the weekend free, Travis had powered through his day without a break for lunch. He'd made the two hour drive straight from work. So the first moments of the meal were the two of them simply eating in a companionable silence. With compliments to the chef happily given and gratefully received.

After Travis pops the last piece of his steak into his mouth, savors it in a way that makes Wes' insides flutter, he speaks a truth that he owes the other man. Something he hadn't wanted to talk about on the phone when he'd asked Travis to his house for dinner. 

“You were right.”

On the opposite end of the table, Travis sets his plate aside and rests his elbows on the table. His eyes laser focused on his dinner companion. 

“At three months up here I went out with a couple of people. They thought I was the perfect gentlemen, romantic. But they were my rote responses. When a client would do X, I would do Y. It felt wrong on my skin. Phony. Worse because they didn't know. I didn't go out for six months after that. And I felt better, kind of flirted with some people, but didn't go any farther because...you were still on the periphery. I'd think about the way you responded to the kissed in the bar. They way you touched my face. I got off on thinking about what would have happened if you hadn't pulled away from me.”

He'd restrained himself today, it had been a near thing to take the edge off or not. He'd decided not to, not if there was a chance for the real thing tonight. There hadn't really been much restraint in many of the other days in the past year. Once he'd understood he'd been marked in a way by the Detective, that he wouldn't be seeing anyone for awhile, the former escort allowed himself the freedom of fantasy. 

To imagine the kiss in the bar not ending, Travis' touch trailing from his cheek to his lap, to his erection. He'd trail his hand down his own body, as he lay on his bed, in the shower, sometimes in his backyard hammock staring up at the night sky, imagining the other man's hand on him, stroking him in the just this side of too rough that he liked.

He lifts his eyes from his glass of red to meet Travis' across the table. The muscles in his face are relaxed. His face open. He lets Travis see. The want, the hope.

“So I waited those three months, called you to the day. Hoped that you hadn't forgotten me. That you weren't just trying to let me down easy.”

“You're the only POI who's ever tried to swallow my tonsils, so...”

There's a ripple across Wes' forehead. It doesn't go unnoticed. 

“Cop humor, we have to be able to talk about it, joke about it.”

“Is it something we're always going to talk about?

“I'm here. I want to be. There hasn't been one day in the last year that I haven't thought about you, wondered how you were. I wanted you to be well Wes. I thought about checking in.”

“You didn't know where I was.”

“I might have been prepared to use my Detective Fu.”

“You didn't.”

“How would that be fair after I made such a big deal out of you giving it a year. I also figured out I was trying to distract myself from dealing with some shit that needed dealing with.”

“You have shit to deal with? Please tell me more, Detective?”  
The flow is easy between them. Like they've been having these conversations for years. Travis smiles as he gathers up his wine glass and moves down the table until he is sitting next to Wes, like the booth in the bar.

“I was gonna get married. Didn't exactly stand her up at the altar, but... Never really apologized. We worked, work together. It's probably one of the worst things I've done. So I've been trying to -.”

“Do you want to be with her? Are you trying to get back with her?”

“Jonelle? No.” No hesitation, nothing but finality. 

That's enough for Wes.

“Finish your wine. I want to show you the property.” 

“Oh, you want to show me the property.” Travis waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah,” Wes says sheepishly. “I had to find new things to fill my time. I'm kind of proud of it.”

“Then show me the property.”

 

“You did all the landscaping yourself?

“Yeah, I had tenants before and it was easier just to leave it grass, but I've always wanted fruit trees. That's what I saw when I bought it. Avocado, passion fruit...”

“How much time you clock in that hammock?”

“A fair amount.”

“I see it's big enough for two.”

“Yeah.”

Just like the last time Travis touched him in the booth, Wes presses and relaxes into Travis' hand when he slides familiar calloused fingers against the nape of his neck.

“How are you doing Wes?”

A few moments pass in silence as Wes lets the question wash through him. What they've been doing most of the evening has been serious, but something in the tone of this question...Everything has to be on the table.

 

“I was actually married. Before law school. We started law school together. I figured being married we could tackle it as a united front or something. It would make us stronger. She left me at the start of our second year. It was the straw. I didn't even realize I could be broken. It was bad. I felt so bad. Inadequate, like a failure.”  
Travis pulls him into an embrace. Holds him tight. Like he'd done into Travis' hand, he allows himself to relax into the firmness of the other man's body. 

“This last year I've started to remember that I wanted things. Started to feel that fire of ambition that I felt when I was in school. I'm not sure what I'll be doing exactly. I'm still, sometimes the parts that are still in pieces surprise me.”

“Is there any chance whatever it turns out to be will be happening in L.A.?”

Everything on the table. 

“I can't, not yet. Maybe not for awhile. The idea of running into any of those people again...Even now, I don't think I can say exactly why it fell apart with Alex, why I stayed in the game as long as I did. God, I want you. I just don't know if I know how to keep you. Not in a real way.”

The embrace remains tight. One of Travis' hands cards through his hair.

“I don't know if I can be good at long distance,” Travis says quietly.

“I'm still kind of a mess.”

Wes extricates himself from Travis' embrace. Steps back just enough to trace his fingers along Travis' cheekbone. 

“You are so breathtaking.” To his own ears, Wes sounds sincere. The reflection of that is in Travis' eyes when he blushes. 

The Detective doesn't lean away as Wes mouth lands on his gently. Then Travis opens his mouth beneath Wes'. It has been a long time since Wes has kissed anyone that wasn't paying him for the privilege. It would be dishonest to say he hadn't enjoyed, to some degree, the time he spent with a few of his clients, hadn't responded more or less honestly to some of them, especially in the beginning. Still, underneath there was always that current. With Travis, he can step away now and say no, that he's changed his mind and it would be okay. He wouldn't have to worry about gaining a reputation as a tease, wouldn't have to deal with Amanda's sideye, passive aggressive scrutiny of the bottom line. 

“Stay with me,” he gasps out when they come up for air.

“What?” He's gratified to see he's put a dazed look on Travis' face.

“For the weekend, stay with me. Spend time with me.”

“I didn't bring anything with me, but the wine.”

Wrapping his arm around Travis' waist, he maneuvers until he's standing behind Travis pulling him close against his chest. 

The murmur is low and sensuous in Travis' ear. “Look how high the wall is around my property. You brought enough. We could stay naked all weekend. ”

The seductiveness in his voice, there is of course residue of pro Wes in it. It can't be helped entirely, but the desire, the want is real, expressed and understood. 

“Wow. You have, um your game is pretty strong Wes. Yeah,” Travis says voice husky, “yeah, I'll stay.”

 

Fin


End file.
